It was Saturday. Barring any emergencies, Thomas had the day to himself.

  In New Pony, he'd known what to do with a free Saturday. There was the farmers' market on West and Tenth. He’d have coffee at the place with the exposed brick and the barista who knew his order. Maybe dinner with Sammy, or drinks with whoever Sammy had collected that week. The city had a rhythm and Thomas had known its tempo.

  It was a dreary morning. The partially melted snowbanks after last week’s warm snap were frozen again. He started at Oakley's, because the apartment needed groceries and grocery shopping was an easy and essential task.

  Oakley's was not easy.

  The produce section alone was an expedition in botany. Half the vegetables were unlabeled, apparently on the assumption that everyone already knew what they were. Thomas picked up something purple and bulbous and turned it over in his hooves, looking for a sign or a label or any indication of what species he was holding.

  "That's a sunchoke," said the mare beside him, who had materialized from nowhere with a basket over her foreleg and the calm authority of someone who'd been buying sunchokes since before Thomas was born. "Good roasted. You want the firm ones."

  "Thank you." Thomas put the sunchoke in his basket because it seemed rude not to. Apparently he would be roasting sunchoke later.

  The deli counter was another ordeal. The stallion behind the glass — heavyset with a mustache and apron — wanted to talk.

  "You're the new vet, right? Over on Birch Street?"

  "That's me."

  "Well, what can I get you?"

  "A quarter pound of smoked beet root."

  He whistled. "Ooh, no, we don't have any of that big city fancy stuff. I can get you some turkey pastrami, though." He gestured at the tray on the meat slicer.

  "Uh... any... vegetarian options?"

  The butcher pointed down the line at his wares. "I got these mystery cuts of meat sandwiched between bell peppers on a stick." He scratched his head. "Oh, I forgot, there's something in back that might interest you. Be right back."

  The two customers behind Thomas did not seem concerned about the wait as they continued to gossip about home improvements projects.

  Thomas was almost afraid of what the butcher would find, but what he came up with was actually benign - it was a simple Daikon radish.

  "I got this from Roger over in produce," he confided. "Got mixed up in a crate of turnips. We don't know what it is, but it might slice up nice."

  "Perfect," said Thomas with relief.

  "My aunt Petunia's dog's got a thing on her leg," he chatted as he bagged up a hefty portion. "Sort of red and lumpy? Come to think of it, Petunia's got a thing too, but that's her business. Should she be worried? About the dog, I mean."

  Thomas gave a measured response about seeing the dog during business hours. The stallion nodded vigorously and then transitioned without pause into a story about a cat and a flower delivery and a cart that Thomas didn't quite follow.

  It wasn't halfway across the parking lot that Thomas stopped, looked down at the bag, and considered the fact that the slicer had just been used for turkey pastrami.

  He looked back at the store. Looked at the bag. He kept walking.

  # # #

  He walked down Main Street with his bag, past the Salsa Shop from which guitar music drifted, past the Foal Dance Academy where fillies bundled in coats over their tutus were entering, past the thrift store with a handwritten sign that read NOW BED BUG FREE (a joke, Thomas assumed, and then wasn't sure).

  He adjusted his scarf. Misty Hollow moved around him at its own pace — ponies stopping to chat on corners, a Fuzziwug sweeping a storefront, someone calling across the street to someone else about somebody else’s business.

  Thomas walked through it and felt like an observer. He gave polite nods and brief smiles. No one was unfriendly--he just didn't really belong yet. He was the new vet, the city stallion, the one who'd opened the clinic on Birch Street.

  He put the groceries away at his apartment and stood in the kitchen. It was eleven-thirty in the morning, and the day still stretched before him.

  Thomas considered reading. He considered a walk. He considered calling Elaine, but she'd ask how he was settling in and he'd have to perform a version of "great" that he didn't quite feel.

  He went for a walk instead, with no destination in mind, just movement. He went past the town hall, down toward the waterfront, along the scenic walk. Misty Hollow was quaint and folksy in a way that New Pony wasn't.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He ended up at the SSSS. He wasn't sure why. In New Pony, when you didn't know what to do, you went to a coffee shop and sat with a book. You soaked up the ambiance and felt superior to other communities in the world. The SSSS wasn't a coffee shop, but it had a counter and stools. He could see ponies sitting and talking and eating sundaes at two in the afternoon in winter like that was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

  He went in and appreciated the warmth.

  The shop was about half full. He noticed a couple in a booth sharing a banana split, a group of teenagers taking up too much space near the drink station, and two older mares with elaborate sundaes engaged in a conversation. Behind the counter, the shop owner — Scoops, the badge pinned on her apron said — was wiping down the counter with the easy rhythm of someone who'd been doing it for years.

  Thomas sat at the counter and picked up the menu. It was laminated and slightly sticky.

  "What can I get you?" Scoops asked.

  Thomas studied the menu in the way he studied diagnostic charts — methodically, top to bottom, noting options and variables. The toppings list was extensive. Caramel. Hot fudge. Pecans. Cheesecake bites. Strawberry sauce. Sprinkles. Cookie crumble.

  "I'll have a vanilla sundae," Thomas said, "with caramel, cheesecake bites, and pecans."

  "You got it."

  It was nothing remarkable. He was a stallion ordering ice cream on a Saturday afternoon. It absolutely wasn’t something to feel self-conscious about, but that was exactly how he felt. And then:

  "Are you insane?"

  Thomas turned on his stool. Tabby was three seats down, hunched over the counter in a way that suggested she'd been there for a while — possibly since birth. A half-eaten sundae sat in front of her. She was staring at him with an expression usually reserved for ponies who'd just seen unspeakable horror.

  "What?" he said, a bit curtly.

  "You can't just order three sundae toppings," Tabby hissed.

  Thomas looked at her, looked at the menu, and then back at her. "Why not?"

  "You only get two toppings!” She hit her hoof on the counter. “Everybody knows that!"

  "Where—" Thomas gestured at the menu board. "Where does it say that?"

  Tabby's mouth opened and closed several times before she was able to speak. “Well--well--it doesn’t say it there, obviously.”

  “Then what is so obvious about it?”

  "The rule has always been two toppings!"

  Thomas looked at Scoops, who had paused mid-scoop and was watching this exchange with the tired patience of a mare who'd seen everything.

  "It's fine, Tabby," Scoops said gently, returning to her work. "I got this."

  Tabby was not mollified. She turned back to Thomas with a look of righteous indignation, and then went back to her sundae (with the requisite two toppings, he was sure).

  Scoops set the sundae in front of Thomas. "Thank you," he said. He picked up his spoon and took a bite. It was excellent.

  Tabby watched him eat it. She shook her head slowly. Then she picked up her own sundae and pivoted in her seat. He thought she was going to remove herself from his proximity completely, but she actually moved down the counter to the stool beside him.

  They ate in silence for a moment. Around them, the SSSS carried on — the couple in the booth, the teenagers, the older mares. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the three-topping incident, which Thomas suspected was something only Tabby would be bothered by.

  "So," Thomas said, "is this where the locals come on Saturdays?"

  "This is where the locals come every day. It's the SSSS. It's an institution." She said it with particular pride.

  "It's nice."

  "It's essential. This is where things happen. Business deals. Breakups. Town gossip."

  Thomas looked at her curiously. “I thought you didn’t like socializing and didn’t care about your neighbors.”

  Tabby sat in pensive silence, staring into her sundae. At long last, she lifted her head. “Ice cream is a great equalizer,” she said, sounding unexpectedly philosophical.

  “How so?”

  “I guess it all doesn’t seem so overwhelming when you see it over a strawberry sundae.”

  Thomas smiled. It wasn’t the polite professional smile he’d mastered, but a real one. "I suppose not."

  Thomas took another bite of his sundae. Tabby took a bite of hers. Scoops wiped the counter. They sat in companionable silence..

  Tabby scraped the bottom of her sundae glass. "What are you doing here? I didn't take you for a 'wander into the SSSS on a Saturday' type."

  "What type did you take me for?"

  She looked startled at the question. "I don't know.”

  “Maybe I don’t know, either.”

  There was another silence. They were just two ponies at a counter with ice cream, and the work hierarchy didn't apply here. If anything, Tabby had the advantage. She knew the shop, the owner, and the unwritten topping laws. Thomas was on her turf.

  "You're never going to survive this town," Tabby said, not exactly unkindly but matter-of-factly.

  “You may be right,” he said, “but I’m going to try.”

  # # #

  Thomas pushed through the clinic door Monday morning to the sound of Tabby's voice, mid-sentence, carrying from the reception desk with the particular intensity she reserved for matters of deep personal conviction.

  "—three toppings!"

  He stopped in the doorway.

  Tabby and Strawberry were both at the reception desk. Tabby was leaning against the counter, hooves spread for emphasis. Strawberry was sitting very straight in her chair, holding her coffee with both hooves. They both looked up at him simultaneously.

  Tabby’s look was sharp, naturally. Strawberry's expression was harder to read. There was surprise, maybe, and something adjacent to respect.

  "Good morning," Thomas said carefully.

  “I hear you got to experience the SSSS,” said Strawberry, a small grin breaking out. “Did Tabby show you the ropes?”

  “She certainly did.”

  “Hmph,” said Tabby, crossing her forelegs.

  "For the record," he said, walking past them toward his office, "the sundae was delicious."

  “The nerve,” said Tabby, and flounced off to ready the exam room.